


took to the white sea-foam

by faranth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Implied Character Death, M/M, siren au, sirens aren't very nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3390356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faranth/pseuds/faranth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Alfred wants is to see home again.  But the journey is long and the ocean endless, and the voice he hears across the water is beautiful.  How can he possibly resist?</p>
            </blockquote>





	took to the white sea-foam

_“There is sweet music here that softer falls_  
 _Than petals from blown roses on the grass,_  
 _Or night-dews on still waters between walls_  
 _Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;_  
 _Music that gentler on the spirit lies,_  
 _Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes;_  
 _Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.”_  
—“The Lotos-Eaters,” Alfred, Lord Tennyson

—

The ship rocks gentle in the waves, and Alfred stares out across the sun-bright sea.  He stands strong, but the lines of his body are exhausted.  He cannot bear to look behind him, where his men work sluggishly, gaunt for wont of food.

So he stares over the waves, longing for any ports.  He has not set foot upon land for months.  He doesn’t think he remembers what it’s like to stand on solid ground.

And, lord, he wants to wash the salt from his skin, wants to press his face to a pillow cool and soft…

But he wants to clasp his brother’s shoulder even more than that, wants to meet his grin and say, “I’m back for good now!” and be drawn into his arms and never let go.

They should have come upon the home-isle weeks ago, Alfred thinks, closing his eyes to the glare.

But there is nothing.

—

Alfred wonders if they’ll ever get home, or if they’re doomed by the gods to wander the sea forever.  What could he have done to anger them so, he who had left the decade-long war a hero?  He had been so sure, once, that he would return home to all the riches in the world.

But now, well, what is there to know, other than how a body wastes away?

His stomach growls forlornly—there has been no dinner tonight; they haven’t enough food for more than one meal a day, and oh, how tired he is—

Alfred tears his eyes away from the dark sea foam.  It is no use keeping watch in these shadows, not with his body so heavy he can barely stand.

With a nod to his first mate (good, faithful Toris, Alfred thinks, always here) he stumbles below deck and collapses onto the hard straw pallet in the captain’s quarters.  His sheets are stiff with salt and stinking with sweat, but there is no way to clean them now.  Even if there was, what difference would it make?  They wouldn’t be clean for long.

Alfred’s thoughts are jumbled in his head.  He just wants to walk through the woods of his childhood, cool and motionless and surrounding him.  His heart aches at the thought of never setting foot in them again, and he wonders if he will wake to find himself there in the morning, as if from a terrible nightmare.  He is asleep before his head meets the pillow.

In his dreams, his brother meets him at the dock and whispers “Welcome home” into his ears.

—

Another sunrise, another day spent watching over endless blue.  It was beautiful once, still is really, but it has lost its allure.  All Alfred wants is green.

If he could sing (and he could, once, before his throat became too parched to speak, before the salt left it raw; songs of joy and heroism and of rolling hills and how wonderful it is the feel the sun on his back) there would be yearning in his voice.

In his heart, there are songs of home, but there isn’t much music left.

—

“How long has it been, Toris?” Alfred asks, as they watch the waves lapping at the ship’s hull.  He can’t remember anymore.

“Months,” Toris murmurs, resting his forehead on the rail. 

There’s no wind today, and they haven’t moved an inch, Alfred thinks.  Aloud, he says, “Do you think we’ll ever get home?”

Toris is silent for a long time.  His hair hangs matted over his shoulders, and he brushes it back before finally answering.  “I don’t know.  But you can’t let anyone hear you asking that.”

They don’t speak again, not till they each head to sleep hours later.  Alfred knows Toris is right—if he loses faith, then they’ll never get home.

—

They hear the music before they see the island.  It’s beautiful, and Alfred is enamored as he leans over the railing to hear it better.  It’s soft and soothing, like the lullabies his brother sang to him as a child, when he was terrified by storms that rattled their windows.

The sea is calm now, but the song is so familiar, so much like what he has lost, that Alfred can’t move away.

Then the island appears, brilliant as an emerald, and Alfred feels his spirits rise.

It’s not home, but if they might replenish their stores or gather their bearings— it is worth a stop, Alfred thinks, and orders his men to set sail for it. 

There is hope yet.

At least, there is until Feliks rushes up to him and shoves soft wax into his hands.

“Plug your ears, captain,” he says firmly.  “That’s the siren’s song.  Listen long enough, and it will lure all men who hear it to their deaths.”

But Alfred is already gone, staring across the ocean, to a figure lounging on the rocks.

—

The siren is beautiful too; he can tell when the ship sails close enough: golden curls shine in the sunlight, and his body is pale like the sea foam that catches on his rock.  His muscles flex as he spreads his arms, as if in welcome, when he notices the sailors.

Alfred meets his gaze and is taken by the violet of his eyes, glinting like jewels set in gold.  He is the most beautiful man in the world, and if his mouth hadn’t been dry before, it would have gone dry now.

Something stirs, hot and rolling, in his gut.

The siren’s voice seems louder.

—

The siren could help them.  He knows the area, could point them in the right direction—they could finally go  _home_.

“No, Alfred,” his men, loyal to the bone, tell him.  “Beware the siren—you mustn’t—”

But his men are starving.

“We’ll make do,” says Toris, frightened, “we can last a little longer.”

And how could such a sweet song spell danger?  The siren smiles so kindly.

“Never trust the sirens,” Feliks hisses, trying to draw him below deck.  “They’ll drag you under and tear you to pieces.”  He’s already plugged his ears to the sound.

Alfred is desperate—for food, for water, for land, for home—

(for the beautiful man beckoning him forward.)

“Alfred,  _don’t_ ,” his men plead.  It falls on ears deaf to all but the music.

He takes the rowboat, and paddles to where the siren has laid out upon the sea-slick stones.

—

“You’ve come!”  The siren calls, laughing.  He offers Alfred a hand, and draws him up to stand beside him.  His fingers are cool against Alfred’s own fevered skin.  Alfred doesn’t want to let go, and the siren doesn’t let him.

The ship hovers behind them, already half forgotten in the wake of the siren’s bright eyes.

“I am Alfred, brother of Arthur the King of the Britons,” Alfred says, tongue curiously heavy.  He can’t remember why that’s important, but it is.  The other man smiles and strokes the back of Alfred’s hand.

The siren isn’t singing anymore, but the music still rings in his ears.

“It’s nice to meet you, Alfred,” the siren replies solemnly, looking up at Alfred through his lashes.  It takes Alfred a moment to remember how to breathe; he’s so caught by the siren’s beauty.

Around his neck lie pearly shells, and his hair curls like sunbeams.  His lips are redder than anything Alfred has seen in months.  He wants to taste them, wants to lap them up like the starving man he is.

The siren draws him closer, and Alfred goes willingly, falling into his embrace.

(And he gets a taste of those lips, opening up to them like blossoms after the first rain they’ve seen in months.  He drinks the siren in like he won’t ever drink again, and he lets the siren lay him out flat against the stones.

What else could he possibly ask for?)

—

“Your name!”  Alfred gasps, the siren’s arms wound tight around his neck.  He can feel the other hard against him, warm and leaking.  Alfred is wanting, so, so wanting, all thoughts of home far from his mind.  “I haven’t got your name.”

He runs his palms over the warm wet muscles of the siren’s chest and bends to press desperate kisses along his neck.

“Matthew,” the siren groans, tossing his head back.  His smile is sharp and predatory, and he bucks his hips up into Alfred’s.  “It’s Matthew.”

“Matthew,” Alfred repeats, sighing.  He bites at the curve of skin below his lips, where Matthew’s neck meets his shoulder.

Matthew tilts Alfred’s chin up, violet eyes meeting blue, and Alfred can see the needle-point tips of Matthew’s teeth.

Hazily, Alfred asks, “Matthew, what…?”

“You should stay awhile, Alfred,” Matthew interrupts, pressing his mouth to the man’s jaw.

And then he pulls Alfred down.


End file.
